CHAPTER THREE:DINNER IN BLACK
1417 Words
Emily’s tiny apartment bathroom was steamy.
She stood in front of the cracked mirror in just her bra and underwear, biting her lip so hard she tasted copper.
The black dress hung on the back of the door. Her only nice dress. She’d bought it 2 years ago for a job interview that ghosted her.
What if it’s too much? What if it’s not enough? What if he laughs?
Her hands were shaking so bad she almost ripped the zipper.
She’d borrowed her roommate’s straightener and burned her neck twice. Two little red marks she covered with concealer. Her hair fell in soft waves now, but it didn’t feel right. Too fancy. Too exposed.
She put on mascara. Then wiped it off. Then put it on again.
Her mom’s pearl earrings. The only thing she had left of her. They felt heavy against her ears, like a weight and a blessing at the same time.
She stepped back.
The dress fit. Too well. It hugged her ribs, her waist, and fell just above her knees. Simple. Black. Elegant.
She looked... different. Older. Like a woman who belonged in places with chandeliers and valet parking.
And that terrified her.
Men notice women like this. And then they take.
Panic shot through her. She grabbed her thrift-store blazer and threw it over her shoulders. Armor.
On the bus, she kept tugging the hem down. Checking her reflection in the dirty window. Reapplying lip gloss in the dark.
By the time she got to The Sterling Hotel, her palms were sweating and her heart was in her throat.
The revolving doors spun her inside.
Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen rain. The floors were marble so polished she could see her own scared face in them.
The air was cold, and it smelled like roses and expensive cologne.
Her heels clicked. Too loud.
She peeled the blazer off and clutched it in her hands like a shield.
“Name?” the hostess asked, eyes flicking from the dress to the blazer in her hands.
“Emily Carter. For Mr. Sterling.”
The woman’s eyebrows shot up. Then she smiled too sweetly. “Right this way, Miss.”
Private dining room. Floor 40.
The door was heavy. Dark wood. When it opened, warm light spilled out and hit her face.
Candlelight. Soft piano music from somewhere hidden. A table for two by the floor-to-ceiling window with the whole city glittering below like someone spilled diamonds.
And Damian Sterling.
He was already there. Standing.
He’d changed. No suit jacket. Just a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The top two buttons undone, showing a hint of collarbone.
His hair was still perfect, but messier, like he’d run his hands through it.
When he looked up and saw her, he froze mid-sentence on his phone.
His eyes hit her face first.
Took in the wavy hair. The mascara she’d redone 3 times. The pearl earrings catching the candlelight.
Then they dropped. Slow. Dragging down to the black dress. To her bare arms. To her knees. To the blazer she was strangling in her hands.
Then back up to her face.
The phone in his hand lowered. He ended the call without looking.
For 3 seconds, the only sound was the piano.
Emily wanted to disappear into the marble floor. I look stupid. I should’ve worn the blazer.
Then he exhaled. Like he’d been holding his breath.
“You came,” he said. His voice was rougher than before. Deeper.
“I... yes.” Emily’s voice came out small.
His gaze flicked to the blazer. Then back to her. A muscle in his jaw ticked.
“You didn’t need that.” He stepped aside and gestured to the chair. “Sit, Emily.”
He paused. His gray eyes darkened.
“You look...”
He stopped himself.
“Beautiful, Emily.”
The word hit her in the chest and knocked the air out of her.
No one had said that to her. Not like that. Not in years.
Her cheeks went hot. “Thank you, Mr. Sterling.”
“Damian.” He pulled her chair out for her. When she sat, he was close enough that she could smell him. That same clean, dangerous cologne. “You look beautiful.”
He said it again. Like he wanted her to believe it.
A waiter appeared instantly. Poured wine. Red. It swirled in the glass like blood.
“I don’t drink,” Emily said quickly.
“Then don’t.” Damian sat across from her. “This isn’t about wine.”
The city stretched behind him. 40 floors down.
He looked completely at home here. Like he owned not just the building, but the night itself.
“So,” Emily started, desperate to fill the silence. “The client?”
“There is no client.” He picked up his knife and cut into his steak. Perfectly. Without looking. “It was just you and me.”
Her stomach dropped. “Mr. Ster— Damian, I—”
“Eat.” He said it softly, but it was an order. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
The food came. Small plates. Things she couldn’t pronounce.
Emily poked at hers. She wasn’t hungry. Not with him watching her like that.
Across the table, Damian wasn’t eating much either. He was watching her.
“Tell me something,” he said. “Why did you take the job?”
“90k.” She answered honestly, fingers twisting in her lap. “My mom—”
“Don’t.” He cut her off, but gently. “I don’t want your sob story, Emily. I get those every day.”
She flinched.
Damian sighed and set his fork down. “I mean I don’t want the version you tell HR. I want the real one.”
The real one.
The real one was: I’m tired of being broke. I’m tired of being left.
But she couldn’t say that.
Instead she said, “Because I’m good at my job.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you?”
“I was valedictorian. I—”
“Not that.” He reached across the table.
Emily froze.
His fingers brushed hers. Just for a second. Warm. His skin was a little rough from signing papers and throwing punches, she imagined.
He picked up a crumb from her plate.
“There.” He dropped it on his own plate. “You had something.”
The air got thick. Heavy.
At the next table, two women in designer dresses had been watching. Whispering.
One of them gasped softly. Lifted her phone.
Damian didn’t care. He didn’t even look at them.
But Emily did. Her face was on fire.
“Damian,” she whispered. “People are looking.”
“Let them.” He leaned forward. Elbows on the table. Candlelight reflected in his eyes. “You think I brought you here to hide you?”
The question hung between them.
Her heart was hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it.
He stood suddenly. Walked around the table.
Emily’s breath caught.
He stopped behind her chair and leaned down. His mouth was close to her ear. She could feel the heat of him.
“You did good today,” he murmured. Only for her. His voice was a secret. “Don’t quit on me.”
His breath was warm against her skin. It sent chills down her spine.
Then he straightened and walked back to his seat like nothing happened.
But the two women were staring. Phones were out.
By tomorrow, the whole company would know: The new assistant had dinner with the CEO. Alone. In black.
Emily stood up too fast. Her chair scraped.
“I should go.”
Damian didn’t stop her. He just picked up his wine. “Car’s waiting downstairs. It’ll take you home.”
“I can take the bus—”
“You won’t.” His tone left no room. “Goodnight, Emily.”
Outside, the night air was cold against her burning cheeks.
The car was black. Sleek. A driver holding the door for her.
As she slid in, her phone buzzed in her clutch.
Emily stared at the screen until the letters blurred.
Beautiful.
No one had called her that since...
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the cool window.
Damian Sterling didn’t play games.
And she had no idea what game she’d just walked into.
*****
- Writer
